by Tom Martin
Then, by chance, her eyes fell on the Oracle. A wave of adrenalin flooded through her body. It somehow seemed utterly appropriate. She reached out for the book and with the noise of Krishna murmuring on the phone in the other room she asked the question and tossed the coin six times.
Oracle, please help me. You have to tell me what to do.
Hexagram 42, Increase. She looked it up.
Hexagram 42 Increase turns into Hexagram 43 The Judgement. Increase leads to The Judgement. The answer to your question includes both definitions.
Two definitions for the price of one, she thought. She flicked to the back of the book and looked up ‘Increase’, number 42. Uncertainly, she scanned the text, trying to fathom the cryptic meaning. Gradually, like fog clearing on a sunny day, the advice became absolutely clear. It made the hairs on her arms stand up, to perceive that it actually made sense, that the Oracle was offering her lucid suggestions about how she should act. It read:
42 – Increase
It furthers one
To undertake something.
It furthers one to cross a great obstacle.
The Himalayas! She almost cried out loud. Surely the Oracle was telling her to cross the Himalayas and go to Tibet.
Ten pairs of tortoises cannot oppose him.
Constant perseverance brings good fortune.
The King presents him before God.
The King? She almost fell off her chair. ‘Koenig’ was the German word for King. It could not be a coincidence.
One is enriched through unfortunate events
If you walk in the middle
And report to the Prince.
The Oracle knew that she had suffered unfortunate events but that she felt enlivened by her new situation. How? How did it know that? Was the Prince the same as the King? She did not know. She turned from the definition of Hexagram 42 to the definition of Hexagram 43. It had the ominous name of ‘The Judgement’.
The Judgement
One must resolutely make the matter known
At the court of the King.
It must be announced truthfully. Danger.
It is necessary to notify one’s own city.
It does not further to resort to arms.
It furthers one to undertake something.
My God! she thought. Unless she was lurching into over-interpretation, finding significance where there was none, it seemed as if the Oracle was telling her to go. She was almost certain of it – the message was: Get up, go to Tibet and find the King. Find Koenig– Herzog. There would be danger, it was necessary to notify one’s own city – and she wondered if that meant she should make her peace with Dan Fischer, explain everything, or perhaps with Krishna – but the urging seemed insistent. She should go at once.
It was incredible. She exhaled in amazement and relief. She closed the book and sat there for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. As soon as the book shut she was plagued with doubts. Perhaps she was reading way too much into the ancient definitions. Perhaps it was just coincidence that it spoke of a King and great obstacles. But then she wondered if that mattered. The fact she interpreted it thus was compelling anyway. Clearly she wanted to go to Tibet. The cryptic words of the ancient book had pushed her over the edge, had forced her to make up her mind: she was going to Tibet. She was going to find Anton Herzog and – she could not disguise the thrill this gave her – she was going to unearth an immense story.
Krishna walked back into the room with a tea tray. Nancy watched him place it on his desk and then carefully transfer the two cups. He thinks he’s persuaded me, she thought, he thinks I’m giving up, the poor man.
‘Krishna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you please call me a cab? I’m going back to the apartment.’
There was something in her tone of voice that betrayed her at once, she could tell. His head hanging dejectedly, Krishna set down his cup of tea. She saw his hands were trembling and she regretted once more that she was causing him such anxiety.
‘Nancy,’ he said, quietly, ‘you are not thinking of getting in contact with that man Jack Adams again, are you? You’re not going to take all this nonsense any further?’
‘You’ve already made your opinion perfectly clear and I promise I will make it absolutely clear to anyone that you were totally opposed. I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do. If you can bear to, it would be great if you could just help me a little. There must be more we can find out about Anton and his family. Call our German office and get them to help, try anything.’
But Krishna was shaking his head. ‘Nancy, I am not having anything more to do with this. Dan Fischer has expressly said you should stay in Delhi and he has given no indication that he wants us spending our time looking into Anton’s disappearance. The Trib isn’t a private detective agency, we’ve got a paper to write.’
‘Do you actually believe what you’re saying, Krishna, or are you just trying to save your ass?’ said Nancy in a sharper tone, which made Krishna face her directly and stare at her in silence for a moment.
Then he said, no longer trying to suppress his anger, ‘With respect, you know very little about this region. I know you have an excellent reputation as a journalist, but you are not a regional expert. You do not speak the languages. You have never even been to Tibet. I was advised that you are brilliant but impulsive, and that you would need a lot of advice about local detail,’ he said bluntly. ‘I didn’t quite realize I would be spending the first day trying to persuade you out of a crazy scheme like this, but if that comes within the remit of advising you then that is what I have to do.’
‘And I appreciate your advice,’ said Nancy, speaking more quietly now, though she too felt a surge of rage. ‘I have been listening to your advice. You’ve given me nothing but advice since I arrived. Thank you. Now, as an intelligent free-thinking person, equipped with all your advice, I have made up my mind. I’m going and that’s that. If you feel like helping, then please find everything you can about Felix Koenig. I’ll be on my cell if you get any leads.’
‘You’ll be on your cell until you vanish too, most likely,’ said Krishna.
‘Did you argue like this with Anton? Or was he too much of a myth? Too much of a character? Too much of a man? Is it only young female journalists who get this kind of treatment from you?’
‘That is out of order,’ Krishna shouted back. ‘Anton knew the region better than I do. It would have been inappropriate to question his judgement. You are simply being arrogant.’
‘Well that’s interesting,’ said Nancy. ‘In men, I find this sort of behaviour is more often called determination. In women, it always gets called arrogance.’
Krishna shrugged as she said this. ‘It is pointless defending myself against such a ridiculous charge,’ he said.
‘I agree, it’s pointless, our whole discussion,’ said Nancy. ‘I’m sorry I can’t persuade you to see things my way. But I will assure Dan Fischer that you have done everything to explain to me what a bad idea this is. You will not be reproached in any way, I promise you.’ Now Nancy picked up Herzog’s copy of the Oracle and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.
‘I just hope you can live with your conscience,’ she said. And then she marched out of the office, not looking back.
23
Nancy knelt on the floor of the apartment bedroom and stuffed some clothes from her suitcase into her small knapsack. Whatever she did next, whether she stayed in India or not, she wanted to leave this place. It was the scene of her arrest and it was filled to overflowing with memories of Anton Herzog. She wanted to disappear, to throw her pursuers off her trail, get space to think.
The interior of the flat was dark; she had chosen not to turn the lights on. She was almost certain that her cab had been followed back to the apartment, though perhaps it was just that the strain was beginning to make her paranoid. But she preferred now to be in the semi-darkness. If they were watching her – whoever they might be – at least it wou
ld be harder for them to see what she was doing.
What should she pack? And where was she going to go? To a hotel? To the mountains? To Tibet? It would be cold there, she guessed. The truth was she didn’t know what she was doing. As she threw a sweater and a fleece into her bag, her stomach tightened, as if her body was tensing up, becoming more alert as danger approached. She rolled up a set of thermals and stuffed them into a side pocket. Then there was the Oracle. She flicked through its pages and then carefully slid it down the back of the bag. Herzog must be missing it, she decided. She would give it to him when they finally met. If they ever met – but she couldn’t contemplate failure, not when the odds were so clearly stacked against her.
A siren in the night jolted her and she stood up. She left the suitcase, still lying on the floor of the bedroom, exactly where she had dumped it when she first arrived from the airport. It had been roughly disembowelled by her frantic repacking, clothes spilling everywhere. She stepped into the hall and glanced for a second into the living room, glancing briefly at Herzog’s fantastic hoard of antiques again. The apartment would be a lovely place to live, she thought – a great place for parties, elegant soirées. She felt a spasm of regret for the glamorous expat life she might have had in Delhi – but now she was preparing to become a fugitive, and she dismissed such musings before they ran on and sapped her resolve.
Before she left the apartment she had one more line of inquiry that she wanted to pursue. She hadn’t wanted to make this particular call in front of Krishna, but now she was all alone she felt she could do it. She walked across the cluttered living room and took a seat at Herzog’s writing desk, then turned on his computer and logged on as a visitor. In a second she had the number she was looking for. She paused briefly to collect her thoughts and then, inhaling deeply, she dialled. The phone rang for a minute and she was just about to give up when it was answered by a male voice with an American accent. For a split second she dithered and almost deciding to hang up. She had not been sure how she would respond when she heard the voice, and now she knew: she felt incredibly confused.
‘Hi, James, it’s me, Nancy. Sorry to call so early.’ ‘Nancy – I thought we’d agreed not to talk.’ She could hear the tension and anxiety in his voice and she knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘Listen, James – I’m not calling about us. This is a professional call. Our relationship is over – I know that too.’
But even as she said the words she knew he’d never believe her. She could picture him holding the phone, his handsome face wearing a frown, his green eyes narrowing with doubt. He was already worried about her state of mind. She had taken the break-up very badly at first and he was bound to doubt her words.
‘Listen, James, I’m serious. I need your help. I need to ask you something about South America.’
She could hear the suspicion creeping into his voice. ‘I thought you were off to Delhi.’
‘I’m there now.’
‘What? Then why are you doing a South American piece?’
‘I need some information about a person in Buenos Aires. Can you help?’
Silence, followed by a terse question:
‘Who?’
‘Anton. Anton Herzog. You probably know already – he’s gone missing, in Tibet. I need you to find out all you can about his family and his early days in Buenos Aires.’
‘What! You want me to investigate Anton’s family? Nancy, are you serious?’
‘Yes. Absolutely serious.’
‘Look, I don’t know what you mean by this. I just think this might not be a good idea. Perhaps we should stop this conversation.’
Now she was furious. ‘James, I agree, we shouldn’t speak. But you’re the only person I know in the right place, with the necessary expertise. And you’re the only person I can trust in this. So I’m begging you to do this. Do it for me, for whatever we were. Please.’
There was another pause, and when he spoke his voice was softer.
‘OK. OK, I’ll have a look. What exactly do you want to know?’
‘Anything. Anything you can find. I’m convinced Anton’s background will throw light on his disappearance. But his background might be more complicated than it first appears. I can’t explain, I haven’t much time. I need the information now. Or some information. Something.’
She was calmer now and she could hear that James was relieved by this.
‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. But it’s early here – some people don’t come in until later in the morning. I’ll make some initial calls and get back to you in twenty minutes or so. But I might not have much to report.’
‘That’s great, James, just get me anything you can. Thank you.’
24
Silently Nancy paced the room, waiting for the call. Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. It seemed like an eternity. At one point she went over to the street-side window and lifting one slat on the blinds saw the ominous black car, waiting patiently below. A shiver of terror ran down her spine. If it was indeed the police they would surely be tapping her calls. She would have to be careful what she said if she wanted to stay out of prison. But then again, she thought, surely her conversations would demonstrate her innocence? She didn’t want to put this theory to the test. She doubted very much she’d be given the benefit of the doubt.
Finally the phone rang.
‘Nancy.’
‘James. Thank God.’
She wondered for a second if he was going to say he’d had second thoughts.
‘I found some stuff on Anton . . .’
He sounded as though he was in a state of shock.
‘Go on.’
With immaculate timing an ambulance passed slowly down the road beneath the apartment window, sirens blaring. James said something, but she couldn’t hear his words.
‘One second, James, hang on . . .’
She walked through into Herzog’s spotlessly clean kitchen, which overlooked a quiet courtyard.
‘What were you saying?’
‘I did some searches on Anna Herzog. Hang on, where are my notes?’
There was a pause. She shut her eyes in frustration. She could picture him in the cluttered office, sitting at his untidy desk, digging through piles of paper. She wished that he would hurry. After a few seconds, he began again:
‘Anna Herzog of Boulevard de Recoleta, Buenos Aires, married a man called Gustav Deutsch in 1954. He was a German émigré who arrived in Buenos Aires that same year.’
‘So Deutsch was Anton’s stepfather?’
But what about the photo then, she thought to herself; the mysterious photo of Felix Koenig on the steps of a hotel in BA, back from the dead – allegedly taken in 1957?
‘Wait, not so fast,’ James said. ‘I couldn’t get anything more from the usual sources. There are no photos anywhere of either Anna Herzog or Gustav Deutsch. So I called our contact at the Simon Wiesenthal Centre: you know, the Nazi-hunters. They have an office in Buenos Aires. It’s always a long shot, but with stories about German émigrés of that age it’s always worth trying; lots of Nazis ended up in Argentina. Now and then something comes up. To cut a long story short, I’ve just got off the phone with this man – one of the most prolific Nazi-hunters of them all. He says they have a record for Deutsch. He’s dead now – he died in 1972 – but back in the Fifties they opened a file on him because there was a suspicion that he was in reality a man named Felix Koenig, an eminent academic and a member of something called the Thule Gesellschaft, a sort of occult society with links to the Nazi regime.’
‘My God.’
‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? I never knew Anton had such a dark past.’
‘But why did the Wiesenthal Centre even suspect that Felix Koenig survived the war? Anton always claimed he’d died at Stalingrad.’
‘Well, yes – but this is where it starts to get really strange. The Wiesenthal Centre knows about Felix Koenig’s war record and it’s true that officially he is down as “missing in action, presumed dead
”. He was last seen leading a platoon of men into a derelict building on the front line. Hundreds of thousands of Germans died at Stalingrad. But war records for Stalingrad are a bit of a waste of time – either you made it back to Germany, or you were killed in the battle, or you were taken prisoner by the Russians. Since being taken prisoner was as good as being dead, the soldiers who didn’t make it home were routinely described in the war records as “missing presumed dead”, just like Felix Koenig. Now, Herr Deutsch, on the other hand, arrived in Argentina in 1954, having served nine years in a Siberian gulag. There is no war record for him but that is not completely unusual. The story he gave was that he’d been one of the hundred thousand German soldiers who had been captured at Stalingrad and that he was one of the very few lucky ones who were ever seen again – most prisoners disappeared into the gulag and vanished for ever. At the time of Deutsch’s arrival in 1954 Anna Herzog was living with another German man named Freddie Klaus, who worked as a mechanic in a garage in Recoleta. But here comes the important bit: as soon as Deutsch turned up on the scene, Anna Herzog kicked Klaus out and married Deutsch. That’s why the Wiesenthal Centre suspected that Deutsch was really Felix Koenig, Anna Herzog’s original husband . . .’
Nancy could hardly believe what she was hearing. She stared out through the kitchen window, across the rooftops of Delhi. The lights of the city lit up the sky to the south. There wasn’t a star to be seen, just an orange cape of pollution and then, far above it, the black night.
‘It’s almost romantic,’ she said. ‘She still loved him all those years later. She had been waiting for him.’
What a thought – love even there, pure love, amidst the criminals and the lost souls of the Nazi revolution. And what did that mean for the world? That love was prepared to forgive absolutely anything; that it could turn a blind eye to anything; that it was in the end essentially – even diabolically – amoral? She could see the lights of an aeroplane in the distance, gradually rising up above the distant Delhi rooftops. Any second now, it would begin its ponderous journey to the clouds.